


Be Shoosh

by SlimReaper



Series: Say Yes [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, I will cling to my headcanon that Ratchet loves to snuggle dammit, M/M, Masturbation, NSFW, Oral Sex, Other, Shower Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, dratchet - Freeform, iopele
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/pseuds/SlimReaper
Summary: Drift awakens with a little problem and doesn't want to wake up Ratchet. Don't worry, he can take care of it by himself... if he can be quiet about it, that is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rayearthmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayearthmagic/gifts).



> This fic is for the amazing, awesome, and all-around fantabulous Rayearthmagic! Love ya, girl!

Drift vented in slowly, held it for a count of five, then released the air just as slowly.

Repeated the process. And repeated it again.

Maybe if he kept on focusing on his venting like this, he could keep his fans from clicking on, his temperature from rising, his frame from trembling with the force of his desire.

Unfortunately these slow deep vents were less calming than they otherwise could’ve been, considering that each invent filled his olfactory sensors with the scent of antiseptic and warmth, the familiar combination that could only be _Ratchet._

Of course it did, considering he was laying right on top of the medic.

His new mate loved to snuggle, and Drift was trying to get used to that. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it--he definitely did. He’d never felt so secure, so peaceful, so _adored_ as he did when Ratchet recharged with him like this, holding him close while Drift rested his helm on the medic’s broad chest to listen to his engine hum low. It was just… Drift wasn’t accustomed to anyone _wanting_ him to stick around after interface, much less to hold him while they recharged. He didn't know how much he could move without waking Ratchet up. He wasn't sure his weight on the medic's chest wouldn't get uncomfortable after a while. And no matter how much he loved and trusted Ratchet, his instincts still weren't used to having someone this close while he was vulnerable in recharge. It was all worth it, and he knew he'd get better at it, but he was just... adjusting.

Plus he nearly always awakened before Ratchet and waking up pressed against Ratchet’s warm frame created a problem of its own.

His next inhalation was a bit shaky, but he clenched his fists against the familiar _want to touch_ that overcame him whenever he was this close to Ratchet, and kept trying to calm his hyperactive interface protocols. Ratchet had tried to hide how tired he still was after they’d spent the entire day working on their derelict shuttle’s engine, but he couldn’t control his aura, and Drift could see his exhaustion written vividly in his energy. His mate needed rest far more than Drift needed an overload. That damned _want to touch_ would just have to wait for a while.

Unfortunately his interface protocols, so long unused and ignored, had awoken with a vengeance when Ratchet had first kissed him on their shuttle, and they seemed quite eager to make up for all those long years of celibacy. All it took to get Drift all revved up and eager was for Ratchet to exist in the same vicinity. It wasn’t like Drift had never interfaced before--quite the opposite, in fact--but it had never, _never_ been like this. He felt like a youngling whose interface array had just come online, and he wasn’t used to dealing with this kind of hunger.

He’d finally learned the difference between _getting fragged_ and _making love,_ and sweet Primus, he couldn’t get enough of making love with Ratchet.

And these thoughts were one thousand percent unhelpful right now when he was trying to resist the urge to awaken his mate so he could run his hands all over his strong, powerful frame, or get his mouth on Ratchet’s plating, taste the charge crackling over his armor as Drift teased him to overload…

… and if Drift didn’t get out of this berth _now,_ he was going to wind up waking Ratchet whether he’d intended to or not. His hips were pressed against Ratchet’s thigh, and if he lost control over his panel now, his spike was going to end up pressurizing right against the medic’s own panel. Tired or not, he doubted Ratchet would sleep through _that._ He slowly, carefully lifted Ratchet’s arm from around his waist and laid it gently on the berth, then cautiously began the process of slipping away from his sleeping lover.

It was a testament to just how exhausted Ratchet was that he didn’t grab Drift and drag him back into his arms even once, and Drift knew he’d made the right decision.

But that still left him with this damned charge beneath his plating.

He tiptoed out of their berthroom on silent feet, wishing he could close the door behind him, but the one time they’d tried that, it had squealed and groaned on worn-out bearings that they hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The problem was that washracks weren’t in an enclosed room that he could close off either. It barely qualified as a _washracks_ at all, merely an alcove with a floor grate just down the corridor from the berthroom.

And Ratchet was a very light sleeper. Drift had managed to get out of the berth without waking him up, but any sound he made might carry enough to wake Ratchet despite his caution.

If only he could meditate this charge away! But he knew damn well that wouldn’t work, not now. His protoform tingled with desire, his valve ached with emptiness, and his spike remembered the tight heat of Ratchet’s valve too clearly. No, the only thing that would cure this was release, and at least the hiss of cleanser would help to mask any other sounds.

Drift would just have to make sure he stayed _quiet_.

~

Ratchet snapped out of recharge in an instant, medical protocols queuing up in his processor before he’d even managed to get his optics online. Clearly he’d fallen asleep in his office again--

\--no, he was lying on an actual berth, sure as pit not the best one he’d ever recharged on, but a damn sight better than the cheap cot he’d kept in his medbay office for quick naps. His optics focused on a dingy ceiling, spotted with faint rust stains he would certainly have _never_ allowed in any medbay of _his,_ thank you very much.

And then his processor finally caught up with the rest of him and he remembered that he wasn’t in his medbay at all. He was on a scrapheap of a shuttle with Drift, the mech who was now his lover and his future conjunx, and most importantly, the mech who was _not_ where he’d been when Ratchet had fallen asleep, which was _cuddled up in Ratchet’s arms._

“Sneaky fragging ninja,” he grumbled. Clearly the cold air replacing the speedster’s warm frame against his plating had awakened him, although why his medical protocols had initiated was a mystery. “Getting glitchy in my old age,” he sighed, swinging his legs over the side of the berth with a muffled groan and preparing to go locate his missing mate.

Only to freeze at the sound of Drift’s moan, soft and breathless and almost inaudible beneath the hiss of the washracks, and this time his medical protocols logged it as _arousal_ instead of _possible distress: investigate._

Oh, but Ratchet was definitely going to _investigate_ anyway.

Drift might’ve been the _sneaky fragging ninja_ , but Ratchet had spent more centuries than he cared to remember looking after sleeping patients. He might be heavily built but he could move damn near silently when he wanted to, and he used every last bit of stealth he’d ever known as he crept out of the berthroom toward the washracks.

And it was a damn good thing that Ratchet had muted his own vocalizer before getting a look inside that little alcove, or he’d have definitely let out a moan of his own.

Drift stood beneath the steaming spray, backplate braced against the bulkhead with his head tipped back and his optics closed, lower lip caught between his denta with the hint of a fang just visible. His feet were set wide, thighs parted, knees trembling, and his hands… oh sweet Cybertron, his hands were _very_ busy between those beautiful thighs.

Ratchet overrode his cooling fans as he watched Drift stroking his spike in one hand while he massaged his node with his other. “Mmm, oh _Ratchet,_ ” Drift breathed, the rhythm of his caresses picking up, and Ratchet nearly lost control over his own panel just from watching the speedster’s hand sliding up and down, up and down, black fingers against red and white stripes and brilliant gold biolights. His hips rocked in time and when Drift whimpered, Ratchet almost whimpered right along with him.

He didn’t know what he’d ever done to deserve such a gorgeous sight. If he believed in a god, this would definitely count as a vision of divine perfection.

Drift gasped, fans blowing hot enough to steam up the air as he squeezed the base of his spike while simultaneously rubbing his node faster. Ratchet’s mouth watered at the pulsing of the biolights along the sides of his spike, the red glow from his anterior node just visible between his fingers, bright and clear with impending overload. What was Drift thinking about? Was he imagining Ratchet's hands on his frame? His mouth, perhaps?  Or was he remembering how he'd used his energy manipulation trick to make Ratchet overload so hard that he'd forgotten his own name?

Sparks flashed in the gaps between the speedster’s armor plates and he moaned Ratchet's name again, and Ratchet couldn’t take it anymore.

He _had_ to touch.

Silently going to his knees, Ratchet eased forward into the spray and released his field an instant before sucking the tip of that gorgeous spike into his mouth and moaning deeply at the sweet taste of the mech he loved.

~

Drift’s optics flashed open wide in shock at the sudden wash of _love_ and _desire_ and _awe_ and _need_ that abruptly engulfed him, but he had no time to do more than recognize Ratchet’s field before his lover’s mouth closed over the tip of his spike. He cried out and would’ve fallen if Ratchet hadn’t caught hold of his hips, bracing him up. _“Ratchet, ahh!”_

Ratchet moaned around his spike and Drift’s optics briefly fritzed with a surge of ecstasy. “Oh Primus,” he gasped, hands desperately scrabbling along the smooth walls for something to hold onto. “Oh Primus, oh frag, oh Ratchet your _mouth--”_

Ratchet chuckled and Drift keened. Oh, he’d never felt anything as good as Ratchet’s mouth on him, still could hardly believe that the medic _wanted_ to do this, that he _liked_ _it_ , and he wasn’t sure if he was going to overload or fall over and he didn’t care which as long as Ratchet _kept on doing that_.

But of course Ratchet wouldn’t let him fall. He guided one of Drift’s legs up over his shoulder, then did the same to the other, taking his weight without the slightest hint of strain. Drift arched his spinal strut, his thighs on Ratchet’s shoulders and his own shoulders against the wall with nothing to ground himself against the pleasure. It was utterly erotic and he couldn’t stop moaning, letting his hands fall away and surrendering to anything his lover wanted to do to him.

But instead of pressing his advantage, Ratchet pulled away. Drift couldn’t hold back a cry of protest but Ratchet kissed his inner thigh as though reassuring Drift that he wasn’t stopping and took Drift’s hand. He guided it back to Drift’s spike and wrapped Drift’s fingers around his length again. “Keep doing that,” he said, his voice hoarse with static as he urged his hand back into motion. Then he dipped his helm and his mouth was back, suckling the tip of Drift’s spike like it was the best treat in the universe.

It wasn’t until Drift noticed the rhythmic movement of the medic’s shoulder beneath his thigh that he realized Ratchet was stroking _his_ spike in time with Drift’s own movements. “Oh frag, oh Primus, oh Ratchet,” Drift gasped again and again, imagining how the medic’s hand would look on his spike, his talented fingers curled around the thick length that felt so good inside Drift, wondering if Ratchet had turned up his hands' sensitivity to pleasure himself doubly with every caress…

Ratchet moaned low and Drift couldn’t hold out any longer. His entire frame arched as overload burst through him, pleasure racing over his protoform, lighting up neural pathways, consuming every last bit of his processor so he was barely aware of how his heels dug into Ratchet’s back or how loudly he cried out. For long blissful moments, his universe consisted of Ratchet’s mouth and his own hand on his shaft; Ratchet drinking down every drop of Drift’s overload as ecstasy overcame him.

When it passed, Ratchet finally lifted his helm and let Drift’s spike slip free of his lips as his own strokes sped up, chasing his own overload. Drift managed to unhook his thighs from over his lover’s shoulders so he could gracelessly slide down the wall. There was hardly enough room for both of them on the floor grating, but he didn’t care.

He had to see this.

Ratchet didn’t protest when Drift pressed his hands to the medic’s thighs and eased them further apart so he could see better. He merely sat back on his heels and shamelessly stroked his spike, moaning with pleasure as his biolights blazed and his thighs trembled. Drift trailed his fingertips up the transformation seams of Ratchet’s inner thighs and thrilled at the way his lover cried out at the caress. “Oh, you are so beautiful,” he whispered, loving how Ratchet’s vents roared and his frame shook and how he wasn’t even _trying_ to be quiet. Drift wrapped his own hand over Ratchet’s around his spike and guided him when his strokes lost their rhythm as his overload neared. “Primus, so beautiful…”

And the most beautiful thing of all was the sight of Ratchet’s face as he overloaded, how just for a moment, every trace of care and pain and worry vanished from his faceplates to be replaced by joy and pleasure, and _he_ had brought the medic to this peak. Drift drank in the sight, loving him so much that his spark _ached_ with it.

When it was over, Ratchet slumped against the side wall, their legs tangled up together and both of them venting fast as cleanser rained down over them. Drift managed to move just enough to fall against Ratchet’s chest instead, and he smiled when the medic immediately wrapped both arms around his waist. _Mandatory post-interface cuddles,_ Drift thought, grinning.

“Wow,” Ratchet murmured, pressing his face to the top of Drift’s helm as he held him tight.

“Oh yeah,” Drift agreed. Then he chuckled. “Feel like I should apologize for waking you, but somehow I’m not a damn bit sorry right now.”

Ratchet grinned against his helm. “I’d be offended if you were,” he agreed.

Drift lifted his helm, wanting to kiss that smile he could feel, but at that instant, the hot cleanser suddenly ran out and they both yelped as the temperature abruptly went from _blissful_ to _freezing_. Ratchet swore a blue streak as they both slapped at the controls until they finally turned the icy spray off. The dryer kicked on with a rattle, making them both shiver as the cold cleanser was replaced with frigid air blowing over their armor. “Fraggin’ pit, that’s one way to kill my afterglow,” Ratchet growled, glaring at the controls as though they’d done it on purpose just to slag him off.

It wasn’t a smile, but Drift kissed those scowling lips anyway. “Then I guess we’d better go back to the berth and cuddle until you get it back,” he suggested, and it was almost worth getting doused in freezing cleanser just to feel Ratchet’s field light up with startled delight.

Oh yeah, his mate was a snuggler, all right, and Drift didn’t mind a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as iopele. [Check out my tumblr page here!](http://iopele.tumblr.com/commissions)


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